The Silent Struggle

@Heather225 yes I wrote it are you intrested in reading 

@EliseLeaf 

What If the Loudest Screams Are the Ones No One Hears?

Beneath the carefully crafted smiles, polite nods, and rehearsed words lies a man unraveling—a soul suffocating under the weight of a mask worn for far too long. The Mad Man Behind the Curtain is not just a story; it’s an unfiltered exploration of the quiet chaos that brews inside us, the kind no one sees but many carry. It’s about the man you pass on the street who looks fine, the friend who says, “I’m okay,” and the reflection in the mirror that hides more than it reveals.

@globalWillow3000 

Chapter 1: The Silent Void – The Spark of Madness

There is a void within me, one so profound that it is impossible to put into words. This void deepens with each passing day, and I find myself sinking further into it. When I wake up in the morning, everything seems just as it was before—like waking from dreams that held no connection to reality. Whatever happened is in the past, yet I remain lost in those fleeting moments.

People say, “Things will get better with time; just hold yourself together.” But they never realize the weight of the sorrow I’ve hidden in my heart, a sorrow that refuses to leave or even surface. It has become a part of me, much like wandering aimlessly through the endless cycles of life without the will to move forward. It feels as if a great battle is raging between my heart and mind, but in this war, there are no winners.

Remember, this is not some trivial matter. What you see—the person I am—is not the product of someone else's judgment but rather the torment of my own heart and mind. People talk about depression as if it’s just another minor issue, as if one day it will simply go away. But in truth, it’s a disease without a cure—at least not yet.

I only recognize myself when I accept the harsh reality of my condition—that I have become someone even I struggle to identify. My face, my eyes, my voice—they all feel like they belong to someone else. Sometimes, I think maybe I should do something, maybe I should go outside, maybe I should spend some time with people who seem fine. But even the thought of such actions feels like an unbearable burden.

Sometimes, I wonder—will they think I’m insane? Will those who don’t understand me ever feel the depth of my pain? Will this anguish ever end? Will I ever escape the moments when an inner voice constantly tells me, “It’s all meaningless”?

Depression is a deception, one that slowly hides you within yourself. One day, you find that the person who used to speak to others now lives in silence. The person who once saw life in full color now sees only faded shades. The person who once had immense hope for the world now sees those hopes as mirages.

This pain never ends. People say, “Time will heal everything,” but when this pain becomes an inseparable part of you, time loses its significance. You live every day, every moment, with this pain. It never leaves you alone, and you never find a way to escape it.

But you, the ones who call me mad, the ones who believe I am consumed by insanity—you will never understand how agonizing the silent screams inside can be, screams no one else can hear. Who I am, you will never comprehend, because you are not who I am.

So, I talk to myself. I wrestle with the hesitations within me. I endure this pain and this silence inside, because maybe, just maybe, one day it will all end. Or perhaps, one day, I will recognize myself, and then none of this will matter anymore.

But even today, this is my reality. And perhaps this is my fate—to live in this world as a silent Mad Man whom no one has ever truly understood.

Where did this madness begin? What sparked this inner fire?

As the quiet torment continues, I begin to look back, tracing the very origins of my restless mind. Was it always this way? Was it the events of my past that twisted me into the person I am today? Or was it the relentless whispers of my own mind, turning each thought into a storm, each memory into a battle?

I dig deeper, searching for the roots of this chaos, hoping for an answer, but all I find are fragments—disjointed moments, faces I can’t quite place, and experiences that feel like they belong to someone else. It’s as if the madness began before I even knew it was there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to consume me.